


two and a half men

by wattpadrefugee



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Alcoholic Jschlatt, Angry Wilbur Soot, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dead Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Dead TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dead Wilbur Soot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Dynamics, Ghost Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Ghost TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Ghost Wilbur Soot, Hurt TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jschlatt is Toby Smith | Tubbo's Parent, Older Sibling Wilbur Soot, Protective Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Protective Wilbur Soot, Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Scared TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Slow To Update, Sort Of, TommyInnit Angst (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit Has PTSD (Video Blogging RPF), Traumatized Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot is Not Insane, Will update tags, anymore, it's gonna be implied like once, no shipping or i'll piss on you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:14:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wattpadrefugee/pseuds/wattpadrefugee
Summary: the five stages of grief, told not by those grieving, but those grieved for.or, tommy, wilbur and schlatt are forced to spend what they assume is the rest of eternity together. hijinks ensue.disclaimer;- i am in no way endorsing or supporting character wilbur or schlatt's actions, i am simply writing them sympathetically. i am supporting tommy's actions though. the boy did nothing wrong.- if any cc is uncomfortable with this type of fic, or this particular fic, please let me know and i'll take this down immediately.- this is unbeta'd, so feel free to point out any grammatical errors!
Relationships: Jschlatt & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot, Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 11
Kudos: 204





	two and a half men

**Author's Note:**

> boketto - the act of gazing vacantly into the distance without a thought.

_Sometimes, the player thought the universe had spoken to it, and the universe said you have played the game well._

Tommy was choking on his own blood, eyes looking at walls of crying obsidian without truly seeing; perhaps he was crying too. Tommy was choking on his own blood, crumbled on the floor, a manic porcelain smile glowering above him, always in power, always in control. Tommy was choking on his own blood when he realised he was dying.

Dying is not something mortals are expected to come to terms with. It remains a murky, abstract concept that people diminish and look over in a vain effort to avoid the knowledge of their own fleeting mortality - that is, until they are confronted with it.

On some occasions, the mortal sees it coming, can spot the looming entity in the corners of their vision, can feel it encasing their heart until it consumes them completely, and they give in. Tommy was not one of those people. No, Tommy had entered the blackstone walls of the prison for closure, to cut the final lime green threads Dream had tied to him, and to walk away. Yet, he was never given the opportunity to leave them.

Punch after agonising punch, and he took it in his stride, yelling and cursing until his vision began to blur. He stumbled under his own weight and a suffocating panic hit. 

“Wait- wait, no, Dream, please, stop, stop, STOP-” he babbled in his delirium, silenced by a hand hitting his throat and squeezing, impossibly harder and harder, until black spots danced in his vision, lively and ludicrous and scorning the pitiful state he was in, choking on his own blood, losing all three lives at the hand of a mad man with manic porcelain smiles and all the power on the server.

But the black spots began to get replaced with a white, so blinding, one he couldn’t close his eyes to escape, because some part of his semi-shut off brain registered that this white was not coming from the call, or the lava, whose heat was getting more stifling as seconds of this torture passed by like hours.

It was at this point that he registered the absence of the hand at his throat, and how he was still unable to breathe despite that. He tried to call for help - but no sound came out. He called for help, but nobody came. He wanted Sam Nook. He wanted Tubbo. He wanted _Wilbur_.

**_Tommy?_ **

His mind, somewhere between consciousness and not, halted. He was almost too afraid to think.

 ** _Christ, Tommy, what’s happening?_** And it tore him apart inside that he couldn’t answer.

The white in his eyes was growing, and the voice was becoming less disembodied and more solid. More familiar. He saw a shock of lime green, and he was gone.

He didn’t go out victorious; he didn’t go out with a final venemous “fuck you” to all those who’d wronged him or with all his bitter desires met and a smug smile gracing his features. It was, when it really came down to it, unremarkable. He went out alone, in a cold, obsidian room, beaten to death by his abuser. There’s something overwhelmingly mortal about it. About how sudden and undeserving it truly was. About the knowledge that he didn’t see it coming, that he genuinely thought he would be released from the puppeteer threads guiding and manipulating his every movement. He basked in this thought, this mortality he’d been cursed with, and thought what he could’ve possibly done to wrong those who were pulling the threads - truly pulling the threads - badly enough that he was deserving of this.

Then the pain returned tenfold. 

Hot, searing pain - more painful than the lava in the nether, which he’d fantasised about jumping in more times than he’s willing to admit and definitely more painful than the lava at the cell, which he’d forced his hand into on day four of his imprisonment. It felt like skin being torn apart and stitched together all at once, similar to a respawn, until he registered that there was no stitching together, just the agony that comes with it. Instead, he was torn completely from his own skin and left to drift. Where, he wasn’t quite sure. He let himself drift.

**_Fuck, Tommy, it’s okay, I’m here, you’re gonna be okay._ **

Finally, he recognised the voice, and it was warm and burning and it was home.

**_Wilbur?_ **

And, suddenly, he was there. He opened his eyes, and he was on the ground, his dead brother crouching over him, warm and burning as ever but in the way a campfire is, not an explosive.

“Tommy,” Wilbur breathed, not a question, just to say it and solidify that it was real. And it was. It was real. Fuck.

_“You’re never gonna be president, Tommy.”_

“Holy shit, is the kid okay?” came another voice, and his entire body seized because he knew that voice too.

_“- is to revoke the citizenship of Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit!”_

It was Schlatt. His dead brother, another corrupt president and Tommy, himself, were in a- fuck, _the drug van_. It sounded like the setup to a bad joke. Wilbur slumped and turned behind him.

“I thought you said you were going to stay in the other room when he started passing through,” Wilbur said through gritted teeth.

Schlatt shrugged and took a swig of whatever was in the glass he was holding, “Yeah, but I got bored, and this is far more entertaining than staring at a wall.”  
“Don’t sell your talents short, man, it could be just as entertaining if you get drunk enough,” he snarked back.

“Fucking- blown anything up, lately? Asshole?”

The two continued their nerve-induced showdown until Tommy shifted, trying to sit himself up. Wilbur whipped around to help him up; Schlatt watched curiously from the doorway.

“Toms, my god, what- how, how did you…” Wilbur trailed off, but he knew exactly what he was asking. He just shook his head. There was a pause. Then a tentative request.

“Can you talk for me?” 

_“You’re so_ annoying, _Tommy.”_

Schlatt started laughing, a small chuckle, but it acted as gasoline for Wilbur’s burning fire.

“Shut the fuck up, Schlatt, you’re not helping.”

“Believe me, that was not my goal.”

And they were back. Tommy thought, vaguely, that at least their constant noise was too much to focus on, and was pushing out everything else he should probably have been feeling at that moment. He just died, and the only thing on his mind was utter shock at being stuck with Wilbur and Schlatt, of all people, for eternity. He began to laugh, softly and bittersweet, to himself, quiet enough so that the two men didn’t register it. 

Tommy was aware of three things: he’d just died, Wilbur and Schlatt were here, and they were already giving him a headache, something he didn’t think would be possible once he was dead.

Fuck this. _Fuck this._ He opened his mouth, and his voice came out cracked and unused.

“Fuck this.”


End file.
